


Ineffable

by C_AND_B



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-06
Updated: 2016-06-06
Packaged: 2018-07-12 16:42:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,709
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7113862
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/C_AND_B/pseuds/C_AND_B
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A journey through Clarke and Lexa's life in moments and untranslatable words.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Ineffable

_Koi No Yokan, Japanese - the sense upon first meeting a person that the two of you are going to fall in love._

You meet at a party that you really don’t want to be at. You meet at a party that Raven forced you to because you apparently need to get out more. You meet at a party that Raven legitimately told you to _brace yourself_ for before she tapped the metal strapped round her leg and laughed for a solid five minutes. You meet at a party that has not nearly enough alcohol to make you enjoy yourself, and too many hot bodies that force you to escape onto the porch.

You meet her on a freezing cold night as she shivers on the porch and chuckles lowly at the cheers from inside. You know the instant you hear the sound that it will mean more to you than anyone else’s laugh from that point onward. You know that no other sound will compare to it. You know that your heart skips a step before beginning its dance once again and it’s all because of her laugh.

She startles as you drape your jacket over trembling shoulders but doesn’t hesitate to snuggle in further once she’s turned to assess you. You feel almost self conscious as her eyes dart along your jeans and the button up shirt that you had to fight Raven to wear, because she claimed it wasn’t slutty enough, and you claimed that wasn’t really your aesthetic. You feel less self conscious when she sinks her teeth into her lower lip before throwing a smile your way.

“I haven’t seen you around before.” She states and you allow yourself some time to simply admire the blue of her eyes and the gravelly rasp of her words before you reply, or maybe it’s simply time to collect yourself so that your reply isn’t just a wistful sigh or some cheesy chat up line.

“I haven’t been around before.” Maybe you should’ve taken more time.

“Touché,” she turns to you with a smile and you reply in kind without thought. It’s refreshing, you find, to smile without inhibition. It’s refreshing to be in the company of a stranger and not feel stilted, or suffocated, or like you have to be saying something, _anything_ , to fill the awkward silence.

It’s oddly intoxicating to smile at a pretty girl and have the nagging sensation that you could do that very thing with her for the rest of your life - _oddly intoxicating and frightening and completely ridiculous._ “What’s brings you here then, stranger?”

“My friends call me Lexa. They also drag me to random parties because I enjoy hiding in my apartment watching documentaries too much. What about you?” You watch with reverence as she repeats your name under her breath before she even thinks of continuing the conversation. It’s almost as though she’s trying to commit it to memory and such an idea has you hopeful that you’ll cross paths again. You wonder if a part of her tells her that you meeting again is as inevitable as the sun setting in the sky and the moon taking its place like a part of you does.

“My friends call me Clarke and also the reigning beer pong champion.” You think back to the two boys you’d seen battling it out on the kitchen counter as you’d escaped outside. You think back to the way they’d looked around as though almost willing someone else to show up to play – half excited, half scared. She must see the picture running through your mind because she continues. “I thought my entrance would be more exciting if no one had seen me for a while, you know, create some tension.” You can’t help the laughter that rips from your throat and she simply smiles at your reaction as she redirects her attention from the ripple of your throat to the sky.

“Do you know anything about the stars?” You find yourself asking as you let your own gaze trip over the pictures and stories painted in gas and fire. She mumbles a small no and it’s enough to let your mouth take control of your mind. “That constellation is Orion. One story claims that Artemis fell into a deep and forbidden love with the constellations namesake, that they would hunt together in the night, hiding away from her father who was sure to tear them apart somehow. Their destruction was inevitable really, Zeus was a manipulative tyrant underneath all the glorified stories, and eventually they were proven right when he sent a scorpion to kill Orion. In the end it only succeeded because he got distracted by the face of his love and Artemis wept and wept, carrying her lover into the sky to be immortalised in the stars. The scorpion is up there too actually, but they never appear in the same sky. I suppose Artemis set Orion far enough away that nothing could ever harm him again.”

“Why the fascination?” She regards you curiously, without malice and with something else that you’re not sure you can name quite yet, maybe because it only seems to be an idea. It’s something that tells you that this, whatever this is between the two of you, is going to be something more than an astrology lesson haphazardly taught to the soundtrack of thumping music and carefree cheers.

“I figure we wouldn't even exist if it weren't for the stars, _so_ , at least someone should take the time to know what they mean.” You wonder why you’re being so open. You wonder why you’re letting a pretty smile loosen your lips when you’d managed to hold your tongue through all the alcohol.

Maybe it’s because the pretty smile is attached to the prettiest girl you’ve ever seen.

Maybe it’s because you’re so stupidly gay.

“You're different than the stories.” Your brow furrows understandably because that’s an entirely ambiguous statement and you’re a little curious as to what stories she’s referring to.

“What does that mean?”

“Raven talks about you a lot; I'd think she was in love with you if it weren't for her girlfriend and her constant repetition that you're all about work and glares.” You chuckle at the description because she’s not entirely wrong. You hadn’t glared at Raven with any real heat in a while but that didn’t mean you weren’t still glaring at other people (namely the douchebag cashier at the convenience store down the road and the weird neighbour you caught sniffing Raven’s mail that one time).

And work...

Work was something you were proud of, something you’d worked hard for and enjoyed. You mostly figure you should throw yourself wholeheartedly in it before you start to hate it and have to find some new hobbies.

“Well now I can be all about work, glares _and_ stars.” You wink and revel in the crimson wave it sparks to crash across her cheeks. She looks cute when she blushes, and when she smiles, and when she laughs, and when she breathes.

“Who knew the big bad roommate would be a secret softie.” You can’t help but wonder just exactly what stories Raven has been telling about you to give you such a reputation. Although, no one had seemed to cower in your presence as you walked in, so you really had to wonder if the only person she’d been telling them was Clarke, and why exactly that would be the case.

“Maybe it's just for pretty girls named Clarke.” She rolls her eyes with a shining grin and maybe that’s the reason. Maybe Raven knew, like a part of you knew, the moment you saw blonde hair cascading down alabaster skin, that Clarke would set your veins ablaze, that Clarke would make you remember why you really fell in love with stars in the first place.

“Know a lot of those do you?” She quips with a smirk but your face is nothing but serious as you shake your head.

“Just the one,” you whisper and something much softer passes over her face. You wonder what kissing her would feel like. You don’t know her last name or her favourite colour. You’re not sure what her job is or what’s her favourite food. You have no idea what her parents are like or if she has an irrational love of anything like you do constellations and their tales. You really know next to nothing about Clarke ‘ _Beer Pong Champion’_ (Last Name Pending) but you know you want to kiss her.

You know that you want to learn all those things about her.

You know that she’s something _more_ , that she’s going to make you feel something _more_.

“Clarke, come defend your fucking title. Bellamy is getting way too bigheaded.” Raven shouts through the door, popping her head out to examine the two of you quietly talking on the porch with a grin before she disappears inside again. The look she delivers you before she’s gone is one that tells you she didn’t miss the fact that your jacket was wrapped around Clarke’s shoulders, or that the two of you were standing far closer than regular friendly conversations would dictate. The look she delivers tells you you’ll be talking about it in great detail whenever Raven has managed to climb out of her hangover induced hibernation.

“That's my cue.”

“I wouldn't want to stand in the way of the reigning beer pong champion.” She shifts into your space as she wraps your jacket back around your own shoulders and tugs at your lapels. You all but fall into her then. You stumble into her bubble and just manage to mask the gasp that threatens to echo through the night when she tenderly brushes her nose against your own. You feel like she’s stealing your breath. You feel like you can’t even remember how to breathe. You feel like you may never breathe right again.

“You can stand in my way anytime.” She winks and you laugh but it holds no real weight - it’s truly nothing more than a few expulsions of breath and a twinkle in your eye.

“Hurry your ass up, Clarkey.” Raven sounds again and you’re thankful she doesn’t poke her head out again because she’d never let you live it down; it may also have stopped Clarke from doing what she does next - that being pressing a lingering kiss to your cheek and offering a parting wave alongside her words.

“Don’t be a stranger.” You have a feeling you couldn’t avoid her if you tried.

(You most definitely won’t be trying).

* * *

 

_Forelsket, Norwegian - the euphoria you experience when you are first falling in love._

You like coffee. Coffee is warm and simple and nice. You like this coffee shop. The barista isn’t overly personal and your favourite table always seems to be free when you come in, plus they gladly make the tea you like without giving you one of those _this drink is pretentious_ looks. You like this coffee shop and you like coffee but you think that you _really_ like Clarke. You really like Clarke and the idea of having coffee with Clarke in your favourite coffee shop is both terrifyingly amazing and amazingly terrifying.

And yet you invited her. You invited her and it had seemed so simple to text the words at the time. It had all seemed so simple until your finger had pressed send and suddenly three dots appeared and she actually said yes.

Clarke actually said yes and you almost backed out.

You were about three seconds away from sending some generic excuse, and hiding in your room with pizza, but then Raven had burst through already cheering that she was proud of you for growing lady balls and you were stuck.

Not that it’s a bad place to be stuck. Being stuck having coffee with Clarke isn’t really being stuck at all, you’re just nervous. You’re nervous because you want it to go well, you want to know more about her. You’re nervous because Raven made it seem like she wanted those things too, well, that’s the impression you got when you realised Clarke had texted Raven that you’d asked her out the second you’d done it.

You’re nervous because you don’t really know if it’s a date.

You want it to be a date.

You’re sitting in your favourite booth, waiting for Clarke and wondering if you should stand up when she arrives, if you should press a kiss to her cheek or hug her, if you should tell her that she looks beautiful even if she appears in nothing but a trash bag and a smile (it probably wouldn’t even be a lie). You’re wondering if you should treat it like it’s a date or if you should ask her to clarify if it’s a date. You’re wondering what her reaction would be if you were actually awkwardly brave enough to  outright ask if it’s supposed to be a date.

“Hey Stranger.” You’re on your feet before you can question it. She’s wrapped in your arms before you can think too much about it. Your lips are pressing gently onto the soft skin of her cheek before you can talk yourself out of going the whole way. She’s smiling when you pull back, and there’s an unspoken intimacy in the way that she watches your lips for a moment too long, until you gather the strength to actually use your words instead of just staring right back.

“Hey Champ.” She chuckles and then there’s a beat of silence in which you wonder who’s going to speak first. You don’t know why you’re making it so awkward. You don’t know why she makes you feel so infinitely awkward – probably because you always believed having a favourite colour was stupid but blue became yours the moment she turned to you with a smile, probably because in the darkest hours of the night your mind has taken to trying to conjure images of what she would look like if that smile was all she was wearing.

“Let’s play questions.” She suggests.

“Isn’t it twenty questions?” You inquire.

“I don’t want to limit myself.” You concede with a singular chuckle and a succinct nod of your head. She grins widely, and then opens her mouth to ask, “What’s your coffee order?”

“I prefer tea actually, of all kinds, though I suppose peppermint is my favourite.” She’s on her feet and wandering over to the counter before you can even think to ask her the same. You want to admonish her for not even giving you the chance to pay but then she’s sitting back down with a giant grin, and pushing a steaming mug towards you and you’re too enamoured with the way her tongue pokes out from between her teeth to even know where to start.

It’s in that moment that you take the time to realise how adorable she looks.

The chill outside has a scarf wrapped around her neck and a beanie tugged haphazardly on her head and she looks adorable. You’re not sure if it’s the red tipped nose that really pushes you over the edge or the dew coated curls that fall from under their woollen prison. Now you’re really sure that you want this to be a date.

“Good to know. I myself am a vanilla latte girl.” She comments as though she hadn’t just walked away mid conversation, as though there had been no break in conversation at all and you hate yourself for finding it ineffably charming. The girl had done nothing more than merely exist and make a handful of witty comments and you were already being completely sucked into it all.

You were screwed.

So very screwed.

“Let’s start easy, like what’s your last name?” You almost laugh because you’d been thinking about that question yourself for far too long. It seemed odd to be so prematurely infatuated with another person and know nothing other than their first name and college accolades (and even then not the actual legitimate ones, just the party going ones).

“Woods and yourself?”

“Griffin.

It’s rather fitting, you think as you question, “like the mythical creature?”

“Yeah, it’s also the ninety-eighth most popular last name in the US.” You grin as she states the banal fact because she looks so proud of herself for knowing it. You grin because she watches you nervously over the rim of her mug for a second as she takes a sip like she’s waiting for you to call her out on something. You grin because you’re very, very confused and she’s very, very pretty. “I Googled that last night so that I could tell you.” She admits sheepishly and it suddenly makes far more sense.

“Maybe you can Google mine for next time. For now though, I think you should tell me what your favourite colour is, I hear that’s actually the second most popular question to be asked in this game.” She chuckles and it reverberates through your teeth, echoing through your bones and settling serenely in your stomach.

“What’s number one?”

“Oh number one is definitely when did you lose your virginity, but I’m saving that for later.” You wink and she replies in kind with a grin that suddenly makes you infinitely more curious about the actual answer to the question.

“Green.” She replies and it takes you a second to realise she’s answering your earlier question. It takes you a moment to filter out the incessant images of Clarke doing _that_ for you to realise that she’s staring into your eyes when she says it. It makes you blush, the way she states the answer like she’s telling you it’s raining, makes you blush.

“Is that a line?” You quip and she smiles widely.

“No. I’m just a fan of _woods_.” You can’t help the eye roll. You also can’t seem to help the smile that appears in spite of every inch of your being telling you that she’s a giant idiot. The fact that she’s a giant idiot only makes you want to smile more and, on the Brightside, she hadn’t made the joke about _exploring your woods_ like that douchebag Raven brought home a couple of years back after a particularly disastrous drinking session (safe to say that it didn’t work out so well with them, also safe to say that his lady killing skills were less than impressive for a little while after the fact as he waited for his broken nose to heal).

“You really know the way to a girl’s heart. Okay, next question and this one’s a real hard hitter. What’s your favo-“

“Is this a date?” She asks and you watch her hold her breath. You watch her chest clench and her ribs tighten their hold on her lungs. You watch the questions and the fear and the hope flutter through her gaze. You watch her teeth sink into her lip like it's taking everything in her not to speak again, not to start rambling, not to take it back because you're taking too long to answer and she's getting the wrong idea.

"I don't really know." You answer truthfully and watch her visibly deflate. "I want it to be." You tag on because that's your truth. Your truth is that you'd been hoping she'd start something from the moment she sat down. Your truth is that you wanted to start something the moment you found her shivering and hiding away from her own party. You really wanted her. You'd been catching her eyes again and again, hoping to convey the things that your mouth couldn't, hoping that she would read the silent pleas and initiate something.

_Anything._

“I want it to be a date too.” She states firmly as her shoulders sink in relief and you feel yourself following suit. Honestly you hadn’t even realised how tense you’d been until you suddenly felt like a weight was being lifted from your shoulders.

You want this to be a date.

She wants this to be a date.

_This is a date._

“Well now that’s out of the way, I suppose all that’s left is your virginity story.” You joke.

“I think you may have skipped a few questions there, Lex.” _Lex._ A nickname probably shouldn’t make your palms sweat. Raven had called you Lex plenty of times. Raven had made up plenty of other, more original nicknames, to use for you too but none of them had made your pulse race. You suppose it’s because Raven never paired them with Clarke’s signature smile, or Clarke’s face, or Clarke’s general being.

It’s when she adds, “favourite sex position definitely comes first,” and smirks that you find yourself regretting taking that last sip of tea because you’re definitely choking a little bit and she’s definitely laughing a lot. You find yourself reaching out to smack her arm in retaliation but she simply takes the opportunity to take your hand into her own and you can’t resist taking your own chance to twine your fingers together.

“Favourite holiday?” You query as though you hadn’t almost swallowed your tongue only seconds earlier thinking about Clarke. _Clarke panting. Clarke twitching. Clarke writhing. Clarke moaning. Clarke begging. Clarke. Clarke. Clarke._ You shift your thoughts to the tender stroke of her thumb across your skin, and the soft smile she sends your way, in spite of the look in her eye that tells you her mind had explored the same avenues as your own.

“Oh Easter no doubt, I’m a big believer in beating my asshole cousin at the egg hunt and then eating so much chocolate that I actually feel guilty enough to go to the gym.”

“Asshole cousin?” She actually blushes a little before she responds indignantly.

“So he’s like twelve but he’s a total douche. This one time—“ She tells the story like she’s painting a picture. She’s all expressive hands and broad strokes. She tells the story like she’s writing a symphony. She’s all colourful words and intricate notes. She tells the story like she’s trying to make you fall in love with her quirks and her expressions and her words.

She tells the story like she’s trying to make you fall in love with her.

(It’s working).

* * *

 

_Hyggelig, Danish - a warmth that has to be experienced to be truly known._

You used to think that warmth was being wrapped up in your favourite blanket when the rain was pounding against your windows, screaming for attention amidst the howling of the wind. You used to think that warmth was scolding chicken soup when your usual articulation had fallen slave to forlorn sniffs and a froggy throat. You used to think that warmth was the way your dad would pull you into his arms when you were upset, or the way he would sing you to sleep when you were little and still believed that there were monsters hiding under your bed.

You used to think you knew warmth.

You didn’t realise how truly wrong you were until you woke up wrapped in Clarke’s arms and felt like your entire body was on fire. It wasn’t the kind of fire you felt when she kissed you until you couldn’t breathe. It wasn’t all consuming and mind boggling and stomach whirling. It was a simmering kind of fire, quietly blazing through your bloodstream and festering beneath your skin in a way that made you think it may never die out. It was the kind of fire that came from lingering touches, and knowing smiles, and falling asleep whilst obsessively watching your favourite TV program (coincidentally exactly what happened in this instance).

“I can hear you thinking.” She groans against your neck, trying to bury herself deeper into your body in a vain attempt to drown out the sounds of the waking world. You knew she wasn’t a morning person from experience. You’d set a morning date and showed up at her door only to find her struggling to keep her eyes open, let alone actually stay standing on her own two feet. She powered through your protests that you could go to lunch instead and you watched her visibly inflate with each new sip of caffeine.

It was endearing.

Feeling her throaty words, coated in a thick layer of sleep, painted onto your skin is even more endearing. Having her tighten her hold around your body and tug you further into her cocoon of warmth is ineffably charming. Waking up to sleepy Clarke was a hundred times better than finding semi sleepy Clarke tripping over her couch and putting random food items in her mouth without even opening her eyes.

“And what am I thinking oh great and powerful Griffin?” Her grin widens across the crook of your neck as you catch the hand that’s wrapped around your waist with your own. You’re acutely aware that the shape of it doesn’t resemble a soft smile, but rather a cheeky grin and you’re simply bracing yourself at this point to see what she’s going to come out with this time.

“You’re thinking _damn Clarke has a sweet ass_.” She mocks and you let a smirk spread across your own lips.

“It is pretty sweet.” You flip in her arms, reaching across her to pinch the aforementioned body part. You chuckle lowly at the squeak she omits as she slaps your chest in response. Silence overcomes the two of you as your eyes meet and you readjust yourself on the pillow until the tip of your nose gently touches hers. “What else am I thinking?”

“You’re thinking that you really want to kiss me right now.”

“Wow, you are telepathic.” You jest before leaning forward and catching her bottom lip between your teeth. It’s the tug you deliver that sparks her into action and has her lips pushing against your own. There’s no hesitation in the way she teases her tongue into your mouth nor in the way you greet it with your own. There’s no restraint in the moan that trembles from your throat when she slips a leg over your hip and swiftly grinds down. There’s even less of both when you slide your hands under her shirt and revel in the way she shivers when soft fingers greet new skin.

Gentle touches turn into something else when your hands linger higher than they should, and her mouth finds new pathways down your neck, and you want this. You want to know how your name sounds from pleasure coated pipes. You want to know the gravel in her groans and moans and pants. You want to know the taste of her skin and the burn in your own when blunt nails search for some place to take hold.

“I want you.” It’s Clarke that says it. Clarke that finally says what you’re both thinking. Clarke that is brave enough to push past the fear of saying it aloud instead of trying to communicate it in subtle touches and sultry smiles. Clarke that says the words in a way that’s both breathless and bashful and only makes you want her more.

“Are those my thoughts or yours?” She drags her lips purposefully over yours and you don’t have the control left to mask the gasp that bubbles in your lungs.

“Both. Definitely both.” You pointedly run your thumb along the underside of her breast and watch her back arch ever so slightly into the movement.

“You’re probably right.” You mumble and she rolls her eyes before dipping back down to kiss you. Her shirt finds its way to the floor only moments later and yours isn’t far behind before your bedroom door slams open and the moment is undoubtedly ruined.

Why did you have a roommate?

Why did you have Raven Reyes as a roommate, a woman known for having no sense of boundaries and never knocking? A woman known for enjoying making situations infinitely more awkward then they had to be because she loved to crack dirty jokes and have the upper hand? A woman known for having sex in places that were most definitely not her bedroom at any given time (a woman that because of said actions, you had seen naked probably far too many times)?

You’d never been caught though. You were usually more strategic than this. Although, you didn’t usually have Clarke Griffin straddling your lap topless so you think you can be forgiven for this one little mistake.

“Sorry for interrupting ladies, I just came to get Lex for my physio session but I can catch a ride elsewhere.” She smirks as she goes to leave and there’s a part of you that really wants to just let her go (that part being your libido) but then there’s the majority of you that has been to every one of Raven’s sessions and had seen what that girl had powered through, the majority that knows she doesn’t like to bring Octavia with her because she doesn’t want her girlfriend to see her at her weakest, or watch her breakdown when things don’t go quite the way she wants.

It’s the majority of you that has you sending a forlorn look Clarke’s way, and gladly accepting the kiss she presses to your forehead as she falls onto the bed beside you, and pulls the sheets back over her body. A warmth spreads through your veins at the sight of her so happily encased in the comfort of your room, so enveloped by the lingering scent of your perfume on your sheets.

You never want the warmth to go away.

You think you would gladly wake up beside Clarke for the rest of your life.

“Reyes, meet me in my car with coffee in five.”

“Copy that, Commander.” You smack Clarke when she snorts, pressing a soft kiss to her lips a second after to placate the pout that appears on previously smiling lips. Warmth is the way Clarke runs her fingertips along your jaw line. Warmth is the way Clarke smiles through hooded eyelids and snuggles further into your mattress like she’s hoping it will snuggle right back. Warmth is way Clarke tells you to ‘move your cute ass and go help your friend’.

Warmth is Clarke Griffin.

(You’re burning up).

* * *

 

  _Tingo, Pascuense - the act of taking objects one desires from the house of a friend by gradually borrowing all of them._

It starts with a mug, not just any old mug though; it starts with your favourite mug. The mug that constellations appeared on when hot water was poured in. You loved that mug. You used that mug for every hot beverage you drank in the apartment, you were undeniably too attached to the mug (that much was obvious from the fact that you all but bit the hand of anyone who dared touch it, anyone but Clarke that is, but she doesn’t count. Clarke is always the exception to the rule).

When the mug went missing you just assumed it was your friends playing a prank on you. You just assumed you’d sassed them out one too many times and they thought it would be an original retaliation since, with you having an actual girlfriend, they couldn’t do their usual favourite thing of putting you on dating websites and then asking to meet for coffee, only to have you blindsided by increasingly weirder women (you had refused to even debate meeting up with your friends for a solid couple of weeks after the incident with the cat lady).

So you wouldn’t have put it past them all. You definitely would not have put it past Raven, but when you asked her she just laughed and told you to place your blame elsewhere.

It didn’t end with the mug though. A week after you realised the mug was missing you also realised that it wasn’t the only thing gone. It took you deciding to rearrange your bookcase for you to register that not all of the books that should have been there were there. It took you storming through the house and checking all possible cavities and crevices for a few of your favourite titles for you to realise that they weren’t even in your apartment at all. You had checked in your office after that but still came up empty and you knew you wouldn’t have left them elsewhere, you were too into checking your bag for your items every five minutes to have just left it in a coffee shop or on the subway.

Your clothes had been the next thing to start disappearing. A couple of t-shirts and jumpers went first. Sweatpants that you only wore on weekends and when you’d had a particularly stressful day at the office were next. You hadn’t realised how annoying that was until you came home in a mood one day and found no sweatpants to slip into. You had walked over to Clarke’s apartment after that realisation and slipped into her sheets, hoping to find comfort in her warmth instead.

You did.

You thought you’d caught Clarke wearing your college soccer jersey one time, but whatever was on her body was on the floor a second later, and she kissed you hard enough that you didn’t even think to question anything that came before her hands in your hair and her teeth on your skin.

It’s after the armchair that’s usually situated in the corner of your room goes missing that you really start to lose it. There were very few people who could have successfully got into your apartment, not have been accosted by Raven, and have escaped with an entire chair without being questioned. Those very few people pretty much just consisted of your friends because the one, and only time, someone tried to burgle your apartment, the culprit ended up with a baseball bat to the face and a laughing Raven Reyes standing above them shouting _batter out_. But when you took the time to single them out every one of them just laughed.

They all just laughed.

And you were going insane.

“Raven, please.” You beg without context the moment you find, or rather cannot find, your spare glasses. You know she knows exactly what you’re referring to when her responding smile is both exasperated and infinitely amused. You know she knows what you’re talking about when she sympathetically pats your back and finally gives you something to go on.

“I honestly thought you were smarter than this, Lex. I had money on you being smarter than this but, since you’re apparently an oblivious dumbass, I’m gonna tell you to go to your girlfriend’s apartment.” It takes you ten minutes to be inside Clarke’s apartment. It takes you even less time to realise how blind you’ve been for the past month because it seems so obvious now.

It’s not hard to notice the books on politics and stars amongst the medical textbooks that are gathering dust, the well worn books on art that look like they’d seen better days and the knickknacks that seem almost half hers, half yours.

 It’s not hard to see your mug sitting proudly on display on the kitchen side like she isn’t even trying to hide the fact that she stole it from right under your nose. It’s not hard to observe the way your favourite scarf hangs on the coat rack by the door or that she has your umbrella resting by muddy boots in the same place. It’s not hard to notice how easily your items intermingle with Clarke’s own like they aren’t separate entities, like they were always in the same place. It’s even harder not to notice the legitimate chair that now sits proudly diagonal from her couch.

The easiest thing to notice is your last name printed firmly on Clarke’s back and the timid way in which she twiddles her thumbs as she watches you take it all in. The nervous shuffle of her feet as she walks your way tells you that you’ll find the rest of your missing clothes in her drawers, and your glasses sitting happily on her bedside cabinet, like they had been waiting for you to catch up this whole time. The nervous shuffle of her feet also makes you unfathomably more curious as to why she decided to secretly shift your things into her space in the first place.

“You’ve been stealing my stuff.” She blinks then shrugs nonchalantly.

“I prefer borrowing.” She comments dryly and you snicker lowly as you take another moment to assess your surroundings, to really take the time to enjoy the way she wears your name like a medal.

“So you intended on giving it back?” She shakes her head softly, wrapping her arms around your waist and tugging you in. You fall gracefully into her embrace and dip your head until your forehead rests gently against her own. It’s the same thing you always do when you know Clarke wants to tell you something but nerves are standing in her way. It never seems to fail and you’re really hoping that this isn’t the time that it finally does.

“No I just intended on you moving here too.” She looks up at you fearfully and it reminds you of your first date when she took the chance to qualify if it even was one. The stutter in your heart reminds you of that moment too. The tingle in your gut when you realise you know exactly what you want in life reminds you of it too. The way she starts to panic because you haven’t spoken yet seems like a trip down memory lane.

“I figured if it happened gradually it would seem less daunting,” she adds and you can tell she wants to ramble on. You can tell there’s a part of her that wants to take it all back, that wants to lie and claim that it was really all some elaborate prank because you’re blank faced and silent and she’s scared.

You smile then, partially to calm her racing heart and panicked thoughts, and partially because the more you think about living with Clarke, the more you struggle to keep a hold on the giddy feeling rising through your chest. You kiss her next just because you want to. You kiss her because she’s yours and you’re hers and you can. You kiss her because she wants you to move in with her and you want to move in with her and she’s a dork. She’s a dork who asked you to move in with her by stealing your stuff and you’re an idiot who took way too long to notice and is taking too long to actually reply.

“Well, you’re here, and my things are here, so I guess it only makes sense for me to be here too.” She grins and you reply in kind because she’s subtly bouncing in your arms in excitement and it’s adorable. She’s adorable.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

(You’d never been more thankful for kleptomania).

* * *

 

_Verschlimmbessern_ , _German - to accidentally make something worse in the process of attempting to mend or improve it._

You’ve been trying to propose for three weeks. That is to say that you bought the ring three weeks ago and had been trying to concoct the perfect scenario in which to propose since then. You had the idea of marrying Clarke from pretty much the first moment you saw her but now it seems tangible. Marrying Clarke seems like a real, attainable thing and you’re terrified.

You know she loves you. You know she’s committed to you. You know she’s told you that she always dreamt about getting married when she was a little girl (you think it was a hint, but then you also think that maybe you think it was a hint because you want it to be a hint and you’re losing your mind going in circles). So you bought the ring and you had the idea and you’ve almost asked like five times but you always chicken out or do something to mess it up and you’re terrified.

You were mostly terrified because you thought Clarke figured it out. You thought that she had figured out what you were hiding under the squeaky floorboard in your bedroom. You thought that she’d managed to get either Raven or Octavia to spill the beans about how you trailed around town with them in tow searching for the perfect ring.

You thought she had figured it out.

That is until you realised she was misreading all the signs as something bad and you weren’t sure how to correct her without proposing in the middle of an argument which, in simple terms, would really suck. Turns out that she thought your absence was you pulling away from her. Turns out she thought your secrecy was you being too afraid to tell her you’d found someone else. Turns out she thought that you were, and you quote, _a lying cheating asshole that never cared about her at all_ and you know that she was angry, that she was feeling embarrassed and hurt but you were pretty hurt by that.

Evidently not as hurt as you were when she walked out after you idiotically asked, “Are you stupid?” when she asked if she was right. It wasn’t your finest moment. It definitely was not your finest moment but you hadn’t been thinking. You hadn’t been able to process anything beyond the tears in Clarke’s eyes and the way she refused to let you reach out and touch her. You felt like you were in a vacuum. You felt like you were watching the whole world pass you by without being able to touch it. You felt like someone had punched a hole in your chest and buried your heart six feet under.

You still feel that way.

You felt that way after the first whiskey you downed in your despair. You still feel that way after whatever number you’re on now.  You still feel that way after the bartender presses a cold glass of water into your hand instead of another real drink and offers you a sympathetic smile. You have to wonder how pathetic you look, a shell of a woman sitting at a bar halfway to being paralytic because you tried to fix things, tried to explain yourself, and somehow only made things infinitely worse.

Your phone buzzes again in your pocket and you know you’ll have a hundred missed calls from Raven, and some texts, and probably some snaps because she was getting desperate for you to reply and thought she’d give it a shot. It’s not until four hours into your bender that you hear the telltale ringtone of Clarke.

It’s not until four hours in that you really begin to panic because you could just pretend the argument hadn’t happened in the safety of this bar. In the haze of alcohol you could almost erase the image of her from your head, but the way your phone jolts with her identifying sound makes it all come rushing back, and you’re terrified to look at the message.

What if she’s telling you to pack your things?

What if she’s telling you it’s over?

What if...

_Clarke (22:01) - Come home._

You should probably hail a cab. You should definitely not step outside into the pouring rain without a coat or an umbrella or anything but a t-shirt and jeans and run home. You should probably think things through. You should definitely not let your thoughts run faster than your legs in all different directions in a fit of panic. You should probably figure out what you want to say. You should definitely not debate just throwing yourself into her arms and begging her to forgive you for things you haven’t even done.

You’re not sure if you’re shaking from the cold or the anticipation of what’s to come by the time you finally make it home. You’re not sure if you really expect a reply when you softly call her name from the doorway but you do it nonetheless and shake in the silence that follows. You definitely don’t expect to find her sat on your bed; shoulders sagged, staring at the ring box that had remained secret for so long like she wasn’t even quite sure it was real.

"Clarke." You say softly, almost as though you're afraid she'll spook, almost as though you're afraid you'll say the wrong thing again and have to watch her run once more. You take a timid step forward and celebrate the fact that she doesn’t flinch from your presence. You take another and exhale shakily at the fact that she refuses to look at you.

“You know, I went to ask Raven if she knew. She called me a fucking dick and told me to look under the floorboard, and all the way home I went through a thousand scenarios of what I would end up finding. This wasn’t one of them.”

"Clarke." You try again but she simply laughs self deprecatingly as she snaps the box open and shut, open and shut, open and...

“You were trying to figure out how to propose." She finally looks up and you’re not sure you’re glad because she looks so heartbroken and hopeful all at once and you don’t know what to make of it. You don’t know if she’s clutching at the box like a lifeline or a noose and you’re terrified. You’re more terrified than you’ve ever been in your life and you hate it. Fear is weakness. This is weakness. Clarke is your weakness."You were trying to propose and I literally assumed the worst. I'm the worst."

"You're not the worst." You argue, risking the last few steps that bring you close enough to sit by her side. You almost laugh when she rolls her eyes because she’s starting to look like herself again. Her tears are starting to fade and the fear rolling around in your stomach has sobered you up quicker than any old college trick.

"You bought me a diamond and I called you a selfish asshole." Your laughter is nothing more than a forced exhale and you refuse to meet her eye when she turns towards you because maybe you should just do this. Maybe you should just bite the bullet, because this situation literally couldn’t get any worse, and you might as well have just shouted it in the argument earlier because a screamed _marry me_ probably would’ve been ten times better than this.

Any joke Raven told in her best woman speech about your stupid proposal would’ve been ten times better than this (if she says yes now, you just know Raven’s jokes about this fiasco will be ten times worse).

"Well you're not wrong about that one but I still love you. I still love the way I find paint on every inch of your skin when we make love. I still love that you sing terrible pop songs in the shower and eat cereal that is more sugar than anything else. I still love that you set my ringtone as Commander by Kelly Rowland and refuse to change it no matter how many ways I try to convince you. I love that you always make things seem ten times more dramatic than they are so I have to come running home to find you bought a new pair of socks. I still love everything about you - the stubbornness, the anger, the passion, the heart. I still love you and I still want to marry you, that is, if you'll have me." She looks incredulous. She’s looking at you like you’re certifiably insane and maybe you are, maybe this is all a terrible idea, maybe you should be angry with her for jumping to the worst conclusions but you’re not.

You don’t have the energy to be angry and you love her.

_You love her._

“You’re really something else, Lexa Woods.” She mutters softly against your lips. She slips the ring on when she pulls back and the sight of it on her finger makes your heart ache.

“As are you, Clarke Griffin.” You reply and you suppose it could’ve been worse. This whole thing could have been avoided with a moment’s confidence or some actual articulation on your behalf but it could’ve been worse.

At least she said yes.

(She actually said yes...)

* * *

 

  _Gigil, Filipino - the urge to pinch or squeeze something that is unbearably cute._

Clarke said she had a surprise. Surprises from Clarke in the past had been both good and bad so, whilst a part of you got quickly excited at the concept, another part of you panicked a little bit. The last surprise you had came last week when you’d arrived home to the house covered in candles and Clarke’s famous (to your circle of friends) chicken parmesan.

That one was good.

Not as good as the honeymoon surprise but lord knows nothing was going to top that, but definitely better than the time you arrived home and found that ‘inspiration struck’ and that she decided to paint a giant mural on the living room wall (said mural being of you as a post apocalyptic warrior - it’s still there, it’s also plastered across graphic novels all over the world so you don’t like to rain on her parade too much).

At least she had warned you this time. Usually you just entered the apartment unknowingly and got bombarded with Clarke’s latest endeavour. Honestly you really kind of loved her spontaneity. You loved the way she randomly got struck with inspiration and ran with it, you know it’s what makes her a great artist, and you know it’s why you haven’t had to think of an original present for anyone’s birthday for a while. You just leave it to Clarke and she’ll get it done. But now you’ve had warning and you can’t seem to work out if warning actually makes things any better.

Warning has left you walking home from the gym wondering what it could be. Is it a thing? Is it an idea? Is it actually some terrible news that she’s disguising as a surprise because she wants you to come home quickly but doesn’t want you to know it’s something bad until she can tell you face to face? You’re a little afraid that you’ll find that nude you let her paint of you hung up front and centre in your home. You’re also a little afraid that she’ll have tried to bake brownies with salted butter again and you’ll be back to eating copious amounts of treats that honestly taste terrible just because she looks so excited about it all.

You had a lot of ideas running through your mind. You had thought of scenario after scenario of what you were going to discover when you arrived home but what you find is not one of them. No part of you expected to find Clarke, happily grinning at you the moment you stepped through the door, with a puppy in her arms.

“A puppy?” You question warily and watch her face fall the smallest amount before her smile is back in full force and she starts stepping towards you. You know what she’s doing. You know that she’s trying to overwhelm you with cuteness so that you’ll cave into what she wants. You know that she’s now sporting a matching pout to the puppy and you don’t know whose puppy dog eyes you’re going to give into first.

Curse your inability to say no to Clarke Griffin.

“Lex, come on, he’s like the cutest thing ever besides me. You can’t say no.” She’s not wrong. The dog is cute. It’s actually insanely cute with its fluffy golden fur and shining eyes. She is wrong that you can’t say no. You totally could say no. You could reach deep down inside of you and turn her down, tell her to take the dog back but you won’t. There’s no way in hell you would openly choose to have Clarke mad at you, and then have the guilt of turning a puppy away weigh on your conscious as well.

You’re not an unfeeling asshole contrary to some popular belief.

“You really need to start running things by me,” you say because you should probably at least pretend to put up a little bit of a fight. For your reputation. For you dignity. She must sense that it’s all for show though because she’s already pushing him into your arms and squealing happily when you let him snuggle into your embrace.

“I take it back. This is the cutest thing ever.” You roll your eyes but smile for the photo she takes anyway because once again - you really cannot say no to Clarke (you have to wonder if some part of her had undergone some weird evolutionary adaptation that allowed her to walk all over you without consequence, or if you were just that much of a sucker for pretty blue eyes and smoky words).

“So what are we naming him?” She looks down at the floor guilty and you huff a half sigh, half laugh before you rephrase. “What did you name him?”

“Well, Raven and I really intended on going out to buy a goldfish but then we saw this little guy.” Of course Raven had something to do with this whole thing. You actually guarantee that she was the one to suggest they switch plans. She was probably sitting at home laughing with Octavia and talking about how this was sweet revenge from all the times you refused to get a pet with her when you were living together. Sometimes you really regret being her friend and when Clarke adds, “We named him Fish,” you decide that this is one of those times.

“Fish? You named a dog, _Fish_?” You were married to an idiot, a charming beautiful idiot, but apparently an idiot nonetheless.

“Yep.” She pops the ‘p’ enthusiastically and you roll your eyes good naturedly before you step forward to press a small kiss to her lips and stare at the ball of fluff in your arms. You kind of want to squeeze him. You want to squeeze him really hard because he’s so cute and he’s yours. He’s yours and he’s Clarkes and that makes you feel kind of inexplicably warm inside because this is your family.

This is your family.

“I love you.” You say because you do and because it seems easier than trying to convey everything you’re feeling, because it seems easier than trying to convey the thought that you could imagine this very picture but with a baby instead. You think maybe she understands what you’re trying to say when she smiles softly before directed her tender gaze to Fish.

“I love you too.” She says and there’s a look in her eye when she tries to take the dog back, and you refuse in favour of more cuddles, that reminds you of when she succeeded on getting you to move in. It’s a look that makes you think this had been her plan all along but you can’t bring yourself to care.

You love your family.

(You’d gladly extend it to a child).

* * *

 

  _Ya’aburnee, Arabic - the hope that a person or loved one will outlive you as to spare yourself the pain of living life beyond that person. Literal Translation: You bury me._

You can’t breathe.

With each passing second that you exist without oxygen in your lungs you begin to wonder if you even remember how it’s done. It’s supposed to be a reflex. It’s supposed to be a constant. But Clarke is supposed to be your one true constant and she’s in an operating theatre and you have no idea if she’s going to come out. You have no idea if the love of your life is going to exist beyond today and so you can’t breathe. You can’t even think about devoting resources to breath when you need them all to pray to gods you don’t even believe in for her to be okay.

You can’t hear.

People must be talking. Enough colours and masses pass your eyes to tell you that it’s busy. It’s a hospital, it must be busy and yet you can’t hear a thing. You can’t hear doctors yelling orders or rolling wheels against the floor. You can’t hear patients groaning or family members crying, family members praying, family members asking for one more minute. You can’t hear the monotonous beep of machines or Raven’s voice in your ear. You know she must be trying to talk to you. You know everyone must be trying to talk to you but you can’t. You can’t hear. You can’t listen. All you can do is wait. And hope.

You can’t move.

Minutes? Hours? You don’t know how long you’ve sat there staring. You don’t know how many people have passed you by or how many times you’ve been told to go get something to eat, or go outside for a breather or even just walk around the floor for a little bit to clear your head. You sat down in the chair the doctor directed you to in order to fill out the forms and you hadn’t moved since. You didn’t move when the nurse pried the paper from tense hands. You didn’t move when Clarke’s mother appeared with her lips moving a mile a minute and her hands waving around angrily. You didn’t move. You won’t move. You can’t move.

You can’t imagine your life without her.

That’s what it all comes down to really. That’s the reason you’re sitting here, silent and unfailing, because you can’t imagine what life would be without Clarke. You know what life was before her. You know that all you did was work and eat and sleep but you also know that you felt relatively content. That wouldn’t be the case now.

Without Clarke you would work and eat and sleep and fill the spaces between with quiet moments away from prying eyes when you lost it. Moments when you remembered the tender way she would run her hands through your hair when you were upset, or rub your back when you didn’t feel well. Moments when you would think back on the first time you said you loved each other because she thought you had fallen asleep, and you couldn’t manage to hide the gasp that spilled from your lips nor your mimicry of the sentiment. Moments in which you would realise that you only used to feel content because you didn’t know what true content was until you met Clarke.

You know that you could live life without her. Eventually you would find the strength to get up in the morning. After a while eating wouldn’t feel like swallowing sandpaper. It may take days or weeks but you would figure out how to leave the house without her wrapping your scarf around your neck and pressing a kiss to your nose.

You could live life without her.

You just don’t want to.

“She’s out and she’s going to be just fine.” The words are met with relieved sighs but you don’t sit around to listen. You’re on your feet before anyone can say a single word to you, following the vague direction in which the doctor pointed and hoping you’ll somehow stumble upon Clarke.

By some miracle or another you find her. You find her and, even with tubes protruding from her skin and under the harsh hospital lighting, she’s still the most beautiful thing you’ve ever seen. You can’t help but steal a moment to take her in. A moment to admire the way blue eyes follow your movements as you navigate the room. A moment to appreciate the goofy grin that spreads its way across her lips as she takes you in too. A moment to think about the fact that she’s your wife and she’s alive and she’s honestly the only reason you’re really _living_.

“You’re an idiot.” Probably not the way you should start the conversation. Although, it is the first thought that rolls through your head the moment you see her and realise that she’s going to be okay, in spite of a few scars and bruises.

“I just got hit by a car; you’re supposed to be extra nice to me.” She moans and you slip closer to lightly take her hand in yours. She squeezes your hand immediately and the unexpected strength behind it makes you wonder what went through her mind when she thought she might die, how she imagined life would continue without her in it.

“And just what does ‘extra nice’ entail?” You encourage because you always do, because you can never not poke at the hive that is Clarke Griffin.

“Definitely more kisses and those incredible blueberry pancakes you only make on special occasions. Oh, and remember that time you got really drunk and gave me a lap dance? That was extra nice.” She wiggles her brows deviously with a smirk and you reply with an exaggerated eye roll before kissing her.

 It starts as no more than a gentle press of lips, but the race of her heart monitor urges you to deepen it before pulling away sharply when it occurs to you that you probably shouldn’t be agitating the situation. She grumbles when you separate but you stand your ground, slipping into the chair beside her bed and watching the way she threads and unthreads her fingers with yours.

“Where’s everyone else, not that you’re not my number one, but I like to think I could draw a crowd into this place,” she rambles and you release a small laugh.

“I maybe, kind of, freaked out a little bit so I imagine they’re giving us some space.” The look on her face tells you that she’s acutely aware that that’s the understatement of the year. The look on her face tells you that she knows you almost completely shut down. The look on her face tells you she’s sorry and she loves you and you never want to have to look at it again. “You can’t die.”

“Ever?” She quips with raised brows and you find yourself shaking you head seriously in spite of the humour in her tone.

“Not until I am firmly in the ground.”

“That seems a little unfair on me.” She points out and you will concede that it does seem a little unfair that she should have to suffer. You won’t even dare to imagine what Clarke would be like if she lost you, especially considering how she was when her dad had his cancer scare a few years back. You won’t even dare to imagine being the one to cause her that pain (even unintentionally).

“Maybe we could do one of those ‘I kill you, you kill me’ things?” You suggest because it logically makes sense, and because you want to see the smile she rewards you with when you throw her an overstressed wink.

“Sounds great.” She grins and you’re about two seconds away from winning the debate against yourself about whether or not you should just climb into the bed with her before the noise levels raise massively and your friends pour in.

“Are you guys making a suicide pact without me?” Raven exclaims in an accusatory manner as she makes her way to Clarke’s side with a bunch of flowers she obviously hastily grabbed from the florist across the road.

“You can totally join.” You hear Clarke say before her mother glares at you all in exasperation.

“No one is dying thank you very much.” You can’t help but laugh as you watch Clarke mouth to just ignore her over her mother’s back when the woman reaches down for a hug. You can’t help but laugh because you’re happy. Everything’s great and you’re happy. Everything’s great and you thank your lucky stars everyday that Raven forces you to parties you really don’t want to be at.

(Not that you’ll ever tell her that).


End file.
